others to do the like."

"That seems a singular way of showing one's gratitude. But why the
Dead March, monsieur? And, excuse me, there is more than one Dead
March. I myself, _par exemple_, composed one to the memory of my
adored Philomene but a week before Hippolyte came with his so sad
proposition."

"I doubt if that will do. You see," said Captain Pond, lifting his
voice for the benefit of the Die-hards, who by this time were quite
as sorely puzzled as their prisoner, "we are about to bury one of our
Company, Sergeant Fugler--"

"Ah! he is dead?"

"He is dying," Captain Pond pursued, the more quickly since he now
guessed, not without reason, that Fugler was the "good Cornishman" to
whose door M. Trinquier had been directed. "He is dying of a
hobnailed liver. It is his wish to have the Dead March played at his
burying."

"He whistled the tune over to me," said the Doctor; "but plague take
me if I can whistle it to you. I've no ear: but I'd know it again if
I heard it. Dismal isn't the word for it."

"It will be Handel. I am sure it will be Handel--the Dead March in
his _Saul_."

"In his what?"